


One Day

by miasmatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coping, Existential Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:41:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach, John doesn't know how to deal with his friend's suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Day

**Author's Note:**

> I rated this mature for the mention of suicide here, sorry, none of the *other* mature here. :-) Inspired by something a very nice person told me once.

"Do you still have nightmares?"  
John stared at the floor in his therapist's office and had an uncanny sense of déjà vu which he immediately dismissed - after all, he had been here before, and he had been asked this very question not too long ago. But that had been before. Before Sherlock had chosen to jump off a building. He couldn't help but wonder how he had come full circle in such a short time.  
"John?"  
He looked up and saw his therapist, waiting patiently for him to gather his thoughts.  
"Not so much anymore, no."

 

The gun looked very solid. It sat on the neat, empty desk like a very patient hawk, like a snake ready to strike. John couldn't help but admire how it felt like the only thing of substance in his room. The flimsy IKEA desk he bought after moving out of 221B seemed like a cardboard plaything (which it was) compared to the cool gray chunk of metal on his desk, as did the narrow bed and the single chair. He hadn't bothered with curtains, or carpets, or cushions, and the rest of his belongings, the things he couldn't stomach leaving behind, he hadn't even unpacked. It seemed like too much effort. He had unpacked the gun, though.

 

"Tell me about your dreams."  
"I don't dream all that much nowadays."  
"Everybody dreams."  
"If I do, I don't remember."  
John realized he had probably glowered at this kind lady who still patiently tried to help him, sucked his breath in, and forced a smile.  
"You do sleep though, don't you."  
"Everybody sleeps."  
His therapist made a note and smiled. "How many hours would you say you sleep at night, Dr. Watson? Eight hours, twelve? Five?"  
"The usual eight hours, doctor. Sometimes a little more, sometimes less."

 

The gun looked reassuring, a well-made tool which had served him faithfully during the war and - after. He had saved Sherlock's life with it once. The grip showed signs of wear, but it was a good, solid wear, spoke of service, cleaning and gun pratice. John knew his way around a gun. Biting his lip, he pushed back from the desk, took his jacket and left the flat. He needed air, that was it. Yes. A nice little walk, maybe a cold beer, someone to chat with, and that would set him right as rain. He had walked past three inexplicably closed pubs before he realized dawn had already started to creep into London, turning the sky a rose-tainted blue. He had missed another night.

 

"John."  
He didn't look up, afraid she'd see, read his mind. She had become quite good at that.  
"If you don't tell me what you think, I cannot help you."  
"Nobody can help me, doctor."  
She smiled the mildly condescending smile he had started to dread.  
"I remember you said so before. When you came here eighteen months ago."  
"I remember very well, doctor. I remember everything. That was when I met him, and, let's be brutally honest with each other, let me tell you what I think, that is what saved me then. That cannot be your idea of therapy, not if you don't have another Sherlock Holmes up your sleeves. Do you now? Another Sherlock?" John spit this last remark. "Is that what you're suggesting? Trust me, I've begged for this particular miracle more often than you can even imagine." John hadn't realized he had jumped up, but now he was standing in front of her, trembling with rage, and he didn't even know where all that anger had suddenly come from. "You have no idea what you're suggesting. There will never - never! - be anyone like him. Never." With great effort, he sat down again and just stared at her, defiantly, across the space separating them, very aware of the tremor racking his hands. Pity. That look on her face, right now, that was pity. John smiled back, not smiling at all, the motion never reaching more than a few facial muscles and skin.

 

Something heavy in his jacket pocket bumped into his thigh as he walked, and he had a pretty good idea what that was. Cold, massive, heavy, reliable, a good old friend. His gun. John kept walking through London's quiet streets, unseeing and unseen.

 

"You do realize that there's just one thing for you to do now, don't you, John."  
"And what might that be, doctor." Head tilted to the side, the bitter little smile never leaving his face.  
"You have to survive one day."

 

His keys still fit. He climbed the stairs to their flat as quietly as he could, dread mounting with every step. Sherlock was in everything here, in every single square inch. John slipped through the place like a ghost, feeling strangely insubstantial between all the mementos of their shared life. Memories came unbidden, little flashs of a happier life attached to every piece of furniture, every book and fabric, vying for his attention. Sherlock's presence rivaled that of the gun in his jacket. With great care, John took off his jacket and placed it on the hanger by the door. Then, he lowered himself into the chair opposite his friend's, placed the gun on the armrest and let his gaze latch on to nothing, nothing at all.

 

"One day. That's all. You only have to survive one day at a time."  
"And what then. What if I survive one day."  
"Then you survived one day."  
"And what then? I don't see-"  
"Anything. John. Anything at all can happen if you survive one day. But if you don't, none of that will happen."

 

One day. One day turned into eternity if you weren't careful. If you couldn't sleep. If you missed someone very, very much. But, in all likelihood, days end eventually. You go to sleep, you dream or you don't. You wake up. You realize you just survived a day. You set a precedent. You can survive a day. You're one day closer to - whatever. On bad days, one day closer to death. On good days, one day closer to something resembling normality, maybe even, at some point unthinkably far in the future, happiness. So, John, can't we conclude there's nothing to gain from ending this existence prematurely, as all existence leads to the same, final destination, the difference being only the duration of said voyage? There seems no point in rushing the natural order of things. That being said, I believe in the autonomy of the individual. However, it seems wasteful to deprive oneself of the boundless possibilities life has to offer while one is, in fact, alive.  
"Sherlock?"  
John woke up with Sherlock's voice ringing in his head, clear and loud as though he sat opposite him in his favourite chair. But of course, the chair was empty, as it would always be now. Other things registered with John, traffic noise filtering in from outside, Mrs. Hudson rummaging around downstairs, and that he had actually slept, thank God, and felt somewhat rested. His hand found the gun still on the armrest. It felt heavy in his hand, and very final. "One day", he whispered, and it sounded like a promise when with one practiced motion, he removed the magazine.


End file.
